


the world at your feet

by casfallsinlove



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1892358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casfallsinlove/pseuds/casfallsinlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was a kid, Dean Winchester learned to dance in secret. Now he's twenty-six and has arrived at ballet school in New York City on a scholarship. He's homeless, lonely, and spends his days doing the only thing that keeps him sane: dancing. </p>
<p>Castiel is, ostensibly, a librarian. But when his younger sister Anna needs another dancer for the routine she has to choreograph, he finds himself agreeing to fill the role. He expected a few weeks of rehearsals with three ballet school suck-ups. He did not expect Dean Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the world at your feet

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been working on this for months but have finally got my ass in gear and finished it. It's inspired by the movie [Five Dances](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2186781/) (which is so great, you should check it out) and Dean and Cas's routine is basically [this one](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jnwzjmm_SHE). 
> 
> Blink-and-you'll-miss-it mentions of bad parenting, alcoholism and homelessness. Mostly this is just fluff. 
> 
> Feel free to ask me on [tumblr](http://casfallsinlove.tumblr.com) if you have any questions.

Anna is the one who brought you together. She needed four dancers but only had three and she asked you and you never have learned how to say no to your little sister so you said yes.

You expected a slightly run-down studio space, Anna’s flawless choreography, and a couple of months working with three ballet-school suck-ups.

You did not expect Dean Winchester.

-

Dean’s dancing is indescribable. You sort of feel like you could watch him for hours, he’s so damn _entrancing_. He moves with all the grace and charisma you wish you owned. Sure, you’re not exactly bad at it yourself, but Dean has that _something_ , that innate, unbridled talent that only comes from being a natural. Nature, not nurture. You were brought up into ballet, you never had a choice not to be good at it.

But Dean? Dean is remarkable.

Which is a stupid conclusion to come to so soon; technically you only met him half an hour ago. Anna had _tsk_ ed you for being late to your very first rehearsal, but really she should have expected it because lateness is your thing in the way that level-headedness is hers, and anyway, twenty minutes is hardly _late_.

The other three dancers had been sitting on the polished wooden floor stretching out when you arrived at the smallish dance studio in Brooklyn with the dull yellow lights and grimy windows that Anna gets a good deal on because Michael-the-landlord is probably in love with her. You’d been introduced to each of them in turn: Jo Harvelle, Charlie Bradbury and, of course, Dean Winchester.

Surprisingly, they are not the disgustingly rich, privileged, dance school kids you’d been anticipating. Far from it. Jo is snarky and sharp-witted with a filthy giggle that you’re absolutely enamored by. Charlie is bright and brilliant and offers you such a genuinely warm smile that you can’t help but like her.

Dean winked at you.

You’re not sure what, if anything, that means.

Anna spends most of the first rehearsal explaining it all; she needs to choreograph a minimum of two dancers in a routine at least six minutes long for one of her grades. She’s chosen four dancers and an eight-and-a-half minute piece of music because Anna was never one to half-ass something. (The daily practices might turn out to be a bit much, especially if you're working at the library all day beforehand, but it’s not like you have anything else to do with your evenings.) Then she gets you all to do a bit of solo dancing, whatever you like, to make some “assessments”.

Which is how you ended up here, sitting Indian style on the floor with the others watching Dean being indescribable and flushing red when you catch sight of your own slack-jawed expression in the mirrored opposite wall.  

“He’s great, right?” Anna whispers from beside you, her elbow connecting painfully with your side.

“I suppose,” you say mulishly, because you’ve never been one for allowing Anna the upper-hand in a conversation and she’s still far too smug about getting you to agree to do this in the first place.

She smirks anyway like she can see straight through your bullshit. “He’s only been in New York a couple of months,” she provides in a hushed whisper under the gentle piano music coming from the stereo, her eyes following Dean’s lithe form attentively. “Got into school on a scholarship. He’s older than me though, same age as you. I don’t know what happened between high school and him coming here. He doesn’t say much.”

“Unlike you,” you tease, and get another bruised rib for your trouble.

When Dean’s short performance ends, he’s flushed and sweating and his loose cotton shorts hang low on his narrow hips. He yanks them up and gives Anna an awkward half-smile. “I could keep going…?”

“No, that’s great, Dean, thank you,” Anna nods, and you try not to stiffen too much when Dean comes to flop on the floor on your other side but it’s hard because you sort of want to reach out and touch his knee where it protrudes under his shorts. He’s got bare feet.

But you don’t touch him because that would be creepy seeing as you’ve not even known each other an hour and you may lack certain social graces but you do know that. So you watch Jo dance, then Charlie, and they’re both beautiful and wonderful but you think Dean might have ruined everyone else for you now, which would be a shame really except you can’t bring yourself to care.

The rehearsal passes quickly. After jotting notes and finding out all of your strengths and weaknesses Anna talks you all through her rough outline of the choreography, revealing a lovely routine if you can pull it off, and plays the music twice over, demonstrating some of the moves herself. Her form is immaculate, as always, even in her ratty blue t-shirt and three-quarter length black leggings. The ballet shoes she’s wearing were a gift from you on her birthday a few months ago.

Then it’s nine p.m. and Anna is officially calling it a day. There’s a small bathroom just in the outside hall and you get changed in there, slipping back into your favorite pair of jeans with the hole in the back pocket and the woolly sweater Gabe got you for your birthday that you think was supposed to be a joke gift but you actually rather like.

The girls are all changed when you go back into the studio in search of your bag, but Dean is still dancing, holding fourth position and as steady as a rock despite the lack of music and the tired pallor to his freckled cheeks.

Yes, you have noticed the freckles.

“Hey, Castiel, you coming out with us?” Anna asks, winding her scarf around her neck. “We thought we’d go for a drink.”

“Dean’s turned us down though ‘cause he’s no fun,” Charlie pouts, but she’s smiling and Dean breaks position to smile back at her.

“Next time, guys, I promise,” he says, and you rarely (literally _never_ ) socialize but you think you could be persuaded if Dean were to go too.

So you shake your head. “Maybe another time.”

You could be insulted by how easily they give up trying to convince you, but decide to rise above and bid them a good evening anyway when they leave. Your backpack is on the other side of the room, near the piano none of you can play, and you pretend not to watch Dean out of the corner of your eye as you put your sneakers on.

“You’re a very talented dancer,” you eventually say, just to fill the silence and because ‘I think you’re astonishing’ might be going too far. Dean’s bare feet make soft thumps against the floor as he performs a perfectly executed revoltade across the room, sort of proving your point.

“Thanks, man,” he says breathlessly. “Right back atcha.”

Then, “Where are your shoes?” you ask bluntly, because really it can’t be avoided any longer.

Dean shrugs. “Don’t have ‘em on me.”

“Oh.” There’s nothing else to say, so you shoulder your bag and don’t look at the way Dean’s back muscles flex under his t-shirt. Dean’s belongings are beside yours, an overly large duffel bag and a green sports bottle. Thoroughly nondescript, so unlike their owner.

“Goodnight, then.”

He smiles at you over his shoulder. “Night, Cas. See you tomorrow.”

It isn’t until you’re out on the street in the cold and the dark that you realize you’ve been given what appears to be a nickname.

It’s a nice realization.

\---

The rest of the week progresses in much the same way, only Anna pairs you with Dean in practice so really the rest of the week actually involves an awful lot of _touch_.

Apparently the pas de deux element of her routine involves the women partnering each other and the men partnering each other, which means Dean’s constantly got his hands on you somewhere; your own hands, your stomach, the inside of your thighs.

You can’t decide whether it’s making life very, very difficult or very, very good.

Dean is completely professional. In fact, he’s always here before everyone turns up and after you’ve all gone. You’d wonder if he was a robot who doesn’t need sleep, if it weren’t that he is so very _human_. His skin is soft and sweaty, warm constantly. He smells like cheap soap and cheaper laundry detergent, but it’s nice. Familiar in the same way Anna’s flowery perfume has always been.

Dean constantly has bare feet.

You don’t really understand this, but if that’s how he wants to practice then who are you to argue? He has, however, upgraded those awful shorts to sweatpants (or occasionally tights, which leads you to wonder what his laundry schedule is and whether he only owns one pair of each) and a dance belt now that you’re partnering.

The routine is starting to take shape. You and Dean paired up, Jo and Charlie a perfect mirror of your movements beside you. Each of you have a solo part, too, and it’s going well. It’s slow and sensual, but not sexy; love rather than lust.

Not for the first time, you find yourself bursting with pride because of Anna.

Exactly one week after you all first met, Jo says, “We’re all going out tonight, no excuses. And that means _you_ , Winchester. And you, Milton,” and Jo is all hands-on-hips and angry pointing and is actually quite frightening which is how you end up at a dive bar downtown called The Roadhouse, sandwiched in a booth between your sister and Charlie and opposite Dean.

The bar is smoky and smells like booze and peanuts, but apparently Jo’s mom owns the place so it’s free drinks all round and you soon forget about the menacing-looking biker gang hustling the pool table.

You suppose this is one of those team-building exercises that work colleagues partake in, except it feels a lot like a group of friends on a night out. You’ve never really had friends so you can’t be sure, but you wonder if that’s what Jo, Charlie and Dean are to you now.

Dean looks happier tonight than you’ve ever seen him; he’s still on his first beer, sipping it slowly, but he’s beaming and laughing and joining in on the others’ jokes.

“So there I am, right,” he says, gesticulating wildly with his hands. Those hands have held you off the ground. They didn’t let you fall. They’re strong hands. “Nine years old and all dressed up like Superman, jumping off the shed pretending I could fly—only Sammy decides to copy me. ‘Cept he’s Batman and he’s a scrawny little five-year-old and everyone _knows_ Batman can’t fly. What’s he do? He jumps off anyway and breaks his freakin’ arm. Man, I drove him to the hospital on my damn handlebars.”

The others laugh while making the appropriately sympathetic noises, but you can’t help but think that there’s an awful lot of subtext to that story.

“Sammy is your little brother?” you ask.

“Sam, yeah,” Dean nods, grins at you over the top of his beer. “He’s twenty-two now. Pre-law at Stanford.”

Charlie whistles. “Geesh, go Sam.”

You nod in agreement, because Dean’s got that big brother look of pride written all over his face that you know you have when you talk about Anna. “You must be very proud.”

“Hell yeah I am,” Dean says. “Practically raised the kid, ‘course I’m proud.”

Well, that’s hardly even subtext.

On Dean’s other side is Jo, whose smile has slipped a little into something more concerned, and you wonder if she’s thinking the same thing you are; that’s Dean’s parents, if indeed he has any, leave a lot to be desired.

Then Anna says, “When I was five and Cas was ten he nearly got us both lost in a forest,” and the tension evaporates instantly.

“I did not!” you protest, because you _did not_. “I was merely providing you with essential life skills.”

Anna giggles, head tipping forward. “You left me there with a map, a compass and a granola bar!”

You scowl when the others laugh. “I was no more than a hundred yards away the whole time and I came and got you, didn’t I?”

“Only after we had wandered far enough to lose our bearings completely.”

You remember it like it was yesterday; Anna with her red hair and pinched little eyebrows when she told you off for leaving her, the way she clung to your hand the whole walk back home.

“Mom was so mad,” you chuckle. You’d been grounded for a whole month for that.

The conversation moves on to hometowns. Jo, you learn, is a New Yorker born-and-raised. “Like, literally,” she insists, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “Mom gave birth to me in the back room.”

You scrunch your nose at that and Charlie declares, “Yuck,” then adds, “I’m from Michigan originally, but I moved to Manhattan with my parents when I was still in diapers.”

Anna nudges you. “That’s like us, isn’t it, Castiel? Mom moved us here when Castiel started high school. There aren’t many ballet opportunities in a little place like Pontiac, Illinois.”

Yeah, because god forbid you should want to study something that _wasn_ _’_ _t_ dancing. Sure it’s something you love and you’ll probably never be able to give it up, but back when you were only a teenager and the world was still big and scary and new, you’d have liked to be granted the option of choice.

“What about you, Dean?” Jo asks, and you reign in your bitterness at your mother to hear Dean’s answer.

“Lawrence, Kansas.”

“Do you still have family there?”

Dean shrugs, a little awkwardly. “Just my dad.”

More of that subtext again. You say, “He’s incredibly lucky to have two such talented sons. Though he must miss you both, being on opposite sides of the country and him stuck in the middle.”

“Sure,” Dean nods, entirely unconvincingly, and isn’t even subtle about changing the subject when he says, “Oh, Anna, the landlord guy came by last night after you’d left. Michael or whatever. Asked after you. Seemed quite… eager.”

Anna groans and Charlie giggles and the topic of conversation moves on, but when you chance a glance at Dean he looks sad.

Later, when you’ve all parted ways and you’re sitting in a rumbling, mostly-empty subway car on your way home, you wonder if Dean is as okay as he pretends to be.

-

The very start of your routine with Dean involves you literally leaping at him, trusting him to catch you, then wrapping yourself around him horizontally. There are three things about this that you’re having trouble with:

  1. the view of Dean’s ass from that close-up is _incredibly_ distracting, tights or no.
  2. he has one hand wrapped around your back, just below your shoulders, and the other hooked under your knees and gripping your thigh.
  3. he has to not drop you.



He nearly does, the first couple of times. Drop you, that is. His palms are clammy and you’re pretty heavy and there’s a moment where you can feel yourself slipping and you tap his leg to get him to lower you to the floor.

“Sorry, dude,” he says. “Let’s try again.”

So you do. You try over and over and over. Anna coaches you through it, places reassuring hands on your bodies to adjust your posture until you’re both pretty much perfect. When she makes you run through the first few steps of the routine and you perform it flawlessly, even Charlie and Jo stop rehearsing to applaud you.

Dean takes a mock bow and slings an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close. “Thank you, thank you, we’ll be here all week,” he jokes, before Anna smiles and tells him to get back to work.

-

Three weeks into rehearsals and you find yourself sitting in your apartment on Saturday morning with no one but your cat for company and nothing to do.

This is not the first time you’ve found yourself in this particular situation, but it is the first time in a long time that you’ve wanted to do something about it.

So you pack your gym bag, pat a snoozing Alfie on the head, and slip out into a frosty November dawn. The subway provides welcome warmth and you stop at the Starbucks across the street from the exit to refill your Thermos with green tea.

The plan is to get a few hours of dancing in before Anna and the others arrive at midday. As Anna’s ‘responsible big brother’ you have a copy of Michael’s key to the place for ‘emergencies’, and you decide that wanting to dance it out is definitely an emergency.

The plan, however, gets shot all to hell when you push open the door to the studio and find a lump of bright red sleeping bag on the other side of the room. A sleeping bag that rustles every time its occupant snores.

A sleeping bag that suddenly makes things _so much clearer_.

Silently, you drop your backpack next to Dean’s duffel and tiptoe over. He’s still asleep, but he looks freezing. The hood on his tatty black sweatshirt is pulled up over his head, the cuffs covering his hands where they scrunch the sleeping bag up under his chin. The tip of his nose is pink and it’s this that makes something in your chest just _crumple_.

“Dean?” you whisper, dropping to your knees and laying a tentative hand on his shoulder. When he doesn't respond, you shake a little harder. “Dean?”

He jerks awake with a grunt and shoots upright, wincing and blinking. When he focuses on you, he flushes red and curses under his breath. “Cas, man—I can explain—it’s just…”

He trails off, looks down at his hands in his lap, and you’re worried that he might cry because you don’t know what to do with crying people.

You hold out your Thermos. “Tea?”

Dean looks up and there’s a definite smile somewhere in his eyes. “Gross,” he says, but takes the flask and pops it open. “Thanks.”

You wait patiently while he takes a drink, pulls a face, shrugs, then drinks again. “Dean…”

"This tastes like ass," he says, then coughs and blurts, “My dad disowned me," and you’re so shocked your jaw makes an audible click when it closes. Quietly, you sink back onto the floor to sit cross-legged. Dean sighs, fiddling with the lid of the Thermos. “When I was sixteen, he caught me going down on a guy in the back of his car. Didn’t speak to me for a month after I told him I was bi, so I couldn’t exactly tell him I was doing ballet in secret, could I? Woulda given the old man an aneurism.”

When no more information is offered, you ask softly, “You learned how to dance in secret?”

He nods. “My Uncle Bobby paid for the lessons for me. Hell, it was Bobby, and Sam’s damn nagging, who convinced me to accept the place here.”

That sadness is back on his face and you hate it, want to never see it again, so you reach out and take his cold hand in your warm ones. Dean offers you a grateful smile and says, “I couldn’t believe it when they offered me the scholarship. I don’t ever remember bein’ that happy. Dad didn’t wanna know though. Told me to get out and not come back. So I did.”

You can’t help it, you reach forward and fold him into your arms, your hands fisting tightly in his hoodie. Dean stiffens for a moment then relaxes and it’s weird because he’s touched you in places you’ve not let romantic partners touch you but a hug like this feels so intimate and it’s _scary_.

When you break apart you ask, “Why are you sleeping here?”

Dean avoids your eyes again. “Your sister let me have the keys so I could stay late and practice and lock up afterwards. I don’t have anywhere else to go. I got here on a scholarship, man. I don’t have money for rent.”

Your throat feels oddly tight and you wonder if something is giving you an allergic reaction.

“Where were you staying before you agreed to work with Anna?”

“Homeless shelter. It weren’t a great place though. Some fucker stole one of my bags one night while I was asleep. Lucky I had my cell phone under my pillow. Took the only photo I brought with me of my mom, though. And my ballet shoes.”

“Fuck, _Dean_ ,” you breath, but he glares at you.

“Don’t. Don’t pity me, okay? This is why I didn’t want to tell any of you. It’s worth it, to be here working with you.” He clears his throat. “With all of you.”

And you know, you _know_ , you won’t be able to go home tonight and sleep with the thought of Dean curled up on a hardwood floor in a ratty old sleeping bag.

“I have a couch,” you tell him, and the hope in Dean’s eyes when he looks up at you is endearing in a way it probably shouldn’t be.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly.

You smile at him. “Yeah.”

-

“The subway is confusing as hell,” Dean confesses that night, when you’re on the way back to your apartment after rehearsal. “Lawrence is all just buses and cars.”

You glance at him next to you. His eyes are scanning the advertisements above the windows, paying careful attention to every word like he’s going to be quizzed on it later. He’s got his sleeping bag tucked under one arm and his duffel under the other.

“You get used to it,” you tell him, though you’re not sure the statement required an answer. “Nobody drives in New York.”

"I miss my dad's car," he sighs wistfully. "Beautiful '67 Chevy Impala. Drives like a dream."

This goes straight over your head, having never owned a car, but you smile in a way you hope is understanding and Dean flashes a grin at you in return.

The subway ride only lasts ten minutes and then you're back on the dark street and Dean's trailing behind you like a little lost puppy up to your apartment.

"It's only small," you warn him when you unlock the door. "And I have a cat."

Dean wrinkles his nose at this last but doesn't say anything as he follows you inside. Your apartment _is_ small; just one bed, one bath, one average-sized living room and a kitchen so tiny it hardly qualifies as one. But when you decided you wanted to move out of your mother's house, and were told by her that you were to pay your own way if you did so, it had been all you could afford on a librarian's wage.

Your couch is big and comfortable though, and that's what's important right now. "Go ahead," you nod, and Dean dumps his stuff in the corner of the room and collapses onto said couch, groaning in apparent relief. You wonder when the last time was he had such comforts.

"Would you like some dinner?" you ask cautiously, suddenly feeling awkward. "I'm not sure what I have in, but I could probably manage some sort of pasta dish."

"That sounds great," Dean says, and he gets up to come into the kitchen with you. "I've been living on instant crap and fast food for weeks."

Alfie slinks out from under the table while you're cooking and he and Dean have some sort of stare-off, broken only when Dean sneezes. You could swear the cat looks smug as Dean glares at him and he trots off to your bedroom, undoubtedly to make himself comfortable on your pillow. 

You make a quick mac ‘n’ cheese with a jar of sauce you didn't know you had and pasta in the shape of shells. Dean wolfs it down _and_ has seconds, like he hasn't eaten in days. You don't like to think about how close to the truth this probably is.

After you’ve cleaned up and both taken a shower, there’s a jubilant shout of, “Oh, I missed TV!” from the living room, only Dean is then devastated to find out you don’t have cable and therefore he can’t watch some medical drama that he’s “like _ten_ episodes behind on, Cas, and I _need_ to know which chick Doctor Sexy chose!”

It’s somewhat charming, watching him curl up at the end of the couch wearing a pair of your pajamas and clutching the remote control to his chest like it’s the Holy Grail. Neither of you speak much because there isn’t much to say, and anyway, the silence is far from uncomfortable. It’s nice, actually, to have company other than your cat.

You decide to head to bed shortly after eleven and ask Dean, “Do you have any plans for tomorrow?” Sunday is the only day you don’t have to rehearse with Anna, though normally you use it to catch up on sleep.

Dean snorts. “Nope. You?”

“I need to buy groceries, but that’s all.”

“Mind if I come with?”

“Of course not,” you say, and fight hard not to be scared by how _domestic_ this whole thing is. You get to your feet. “Do you have enough blankets? The heat will come on just before dawn, but this apartment can get cold in the meantime.”

Dean gives you a look. “Dude, this place is practically heaven compared to that draughty studio. Seriously man, thank you so much.”

You smile. “It’s just for a few days,” you remind him, and yourself, “until you get something sorted out.”

“Totally, yeah,” he nods, then beams at you again. “Night, Cas.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

You use the bathroom and brush your teeth then retreat to your bedroom, leaving the door cracked open for Alfie. Then you strip down to boxers and a t-shirt, put the cat on the rug only to watch him jump straight back up onto the mattress, and climb into bed yourself. The day has been unexpectedly long and emotional and you fall asleep quickly, soothed by Alfie’s rumbling purr from somewhere near your feet.

When you wake up to a loud generic ringtone you think at first that it’s your alarm, but after hitting blindly at your phone and your clock radio to no avail and realizing that it’s still dark outside and also it’s Sunday and _why the fuck are you awake_ —it finally occurs to you that you’re not the only one living here any more.

It’s Dean’s phone. That’s what the noise is; you can hear him grumbling and rustling around just as you yourself were a minute ago and then, finally, silence.

You collapse back into your pillow and close your eyes, happy in the knowledge that yes, you can go back to sleep, when you’re stopped from drifting off by a harsh not-very-quiet whisper of, “For fuck’s sake, Dad!” and then you’re awake, wide awake.

Eavesdropping isn’t exactly something you’re in the habit of doing, but the apartment walls are thin and to get up and close your door would be rather obvious. So you lie there and listen to Dean talking to his father, and with every word your chest clenches just that little bit more.

“I’m not coming back,” Dean is saying in a furious, choked mutter. “Just—you’re drunk, Dad. Yes you are! You think I can’t tell? Hell, you wouldn’t be saying this if you were sober and you know it… You were the one who told me to leave! … No. I can’t do this. Do you have any idea… My life is _here_ now. Dad, I have friends here, I’m doing what makes me happy…” He lets out this pained, humorless bark of laughter. “Yeah? Fuck you too!”

Then there’s nothing but the sound of heavy, shaky breathing and the soft thump of a cell phone as it hits the end of the couch. You’re halfway out of bed before you can even think about it, peering through the gap in the door—only to see Dean sitting on the edge of the couch with his head in his hands, shoulders trembling as he cries.

You don’t know what to do with crying people, and you especially don’t know what to do with crying people you care about. Besides, Dean probably isn’t aware that you heard him and he might not even want you to know such personal information.

Unseen, you push the door further closed and slide back into bed, cursing yourself the whole time for being a coward.

-

Neither of you mention it the next morning. Dean whistles as he cooks breakfast and grins at you as he passes you a mug of your favorite chamomile tea when you finally stumble into the kitchen shortly before midday.

“Morning, princess,” he winks, and if it wasn’t for the telltale dark rings around his eyes you’d almost think you dreamt last night’s phone call.

“You didn’t have to make breakfast,” you tell him, but smile gratefully when he pushes you into a chair and puts a plate of scrambled egg and toast in front of you.

“Least I could do,” he shrugs.

And that’s pretty much how it goes from then on out. For two weeks, you live together in relative harmony. You share meals and ride the subway together to rehearsals. Sometimes Dean joins you in the library while you’re working and brings you lunch. He ‘educates’ you on Star Wars and your offer to share your vast book collection with him is accepted with a smile so bright and eager it takes your breath away. When you take him to your favorite dance store and buy him a new pair of ballet shoes, he hugs you so hard and for so long afterwards that you don’t think he’s ever going to let go.

Occasionally, when it’s dark and you’ve both had two beers too many, you share secrets. Dean tells you about his father’s struggle with alcoholism and you talk about how you wish you’d had a chance to even know your own dad. One night, Dean whispers into the arm of the couch, so muffled that you nearly don’t catch it, that he had to leave Lawrence for fear of turning into his dad. You don’t know what to say to that, so you tell him that you’ve never heard your mother say you’re proud of you and you don’t think you’ll ever be good enough for her.

Dean watches you sip your beer, then shrugs. “I’m proud of you,” he says, and you feel unsteady and light-headed with it.

“You’re not your father,” you reply firmly, and he smiles softly and nudges his sock foot against your thigh.

It’s a nice night.

You’re not stupid. You know you’re attracted to Dean. Who the hell wouldn’t be, he’s like some Adonis with sleep-ruffled hair and pale, freckled skin. But you also think that he might just possibly be your best friend, and you’re one hundred percent certain that if you told him about this ridiculous crush then you’d lose him altogether, and that’s not a chance you’re willing to take.

-

You’re having trouble with the adagio of the pas de deux. For some reason you have this mental block on which leg goes where and when and it’s making you out of sync with the others, and it’s driving you _crazy_ because you don’t normally have a problem.

Maybe it’s got something to do with the way Dean’s breath is hot on the back of your neck, his arm secure around your waist. Maybe.

Whatever it is, you need to get over it and quickly. Anna keeps shooting you a disappointed look every time you fall out of step and Jo and Charlie seem to have mastered it instantly. So when Dean volunteers to stay later with you and practice, you accept gratefully.

Anna kisses your cheek before she leaves. “You’ll get the hang of it,” she says confidently. “Just don’t overthink it.”

“She’s right,” Dean says as soon as the girls have gone. “You gotta loosen up, man, stop being so tense.”

That’s easy for Dean to say, he’s not the one practically being hugged from behind by six feet of muscle and warm skin. But you sigh, nod in agreement, and start the routine from the top.

There’s a bit where you and Dean are back-to-back, where your shoulders press together briefly before spinning away from each other, only this time Dean doesn’t spin away but instead lets his head fall back against yours, and he whispers, “Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” you grit out, because you can feel Dean’s shoulder blades rippling, and you’re leaning on each other so heavily that if he was to move you’d fall on your ass.

“No, you’re not,” he insists, and then, to your endless surprise, one of his hands blindly fumbles for yours. He catches your fingers, drags his thumb across your palm until it’s pressed against your wrist. “Breathe. Trust me.”

You do trust him. Maybe that’s the problem.

But you do as he instructs. Inhale. Exhale.

Sweat trickles down your spine as your muscles go lax. His fingers don’t stop brushing over your hand. It’s dark outside and the studio is lit only with the dull orange glow from the lamp in the corner by the piano, but it’s warm and Dean smells nice. Boneless, you sag against him. He doesn’t falter against your weight; solid and certain, as always.

“Cas,” he breathes, a question and an answer, and you hum in response and your other hand reaches behind you and finds the hem of his t-shirt without any thought. When your fingers slip underneath it to skim lightly over his hip, slightly awkwardly because of the backwards angle, he gasps. “Cas—”

You have no idea what you’re doing. All you know is that it’s _Dean_ pressed against your back; lovely, kind-hearted, beautiful Dean who has completely _ruined_ you somehow.

It comes as something of a shock when Dean abruptly moves away; his hand is clasped on your wrist to stop you falling but you still stumble as he spins you around and yanks you against him, and then his hands are in your hair—wait what—and his face is coming closer and your chests bump together and then, and then—

Dean’s mouth is a hot, desperate thing and your lips part under it immediately, your arms flailing for a few seconds before you finally grab at his t-shirt and just hold on for dear life. He kisses you like it’s his last chance, like a dying man frantic for water. He drinks you in with warm hands and soft, damp lips, and there are these quiet little noises in the back of his throat that he makes whenever you run your tongue over his own that you think you could become addicted to hearing.

There’s a point where he tears himself away from you, breathing hard with lips a beautiful abused pink color, and says, “You want this, right? Tell me you want this, Cas,” and you are suddenly and painfully hard and it hits you that you’ve never wanted anything more in your whole life.

“God, yes,” you breathe, and reel him back in.

That’s the last thing you say for a while, silent as you peel out of clothes and press together close, closer.

The wooden floor is a sharp shock of cold as you fall back against it, but Dean rolls on top of you and his naked body is exuding heat and the contrast pebbles your skin. “Dean, _Dean_ ,” you chant, but he’s one step ahead already, reaching his arm out to snag the strap on his duffel bag.

He kisses you as he rummages in it one-handed, plunges his tongue into your mouth and scrapes his fingernails down your side and bites gently on your bottom lip, and you _need_ , you need to feel him inside you, Dean, so sure and steady and _good_.

You gasp when his thigh slides between your legs and your hips jerk involuntarily, your dick nudging at Dean’s own with a burst of pleasure that sparks through every nerve ending and causes Dean’s roaming hand to slam on the floor.

“Cas,” he pleads, breathing damply against your collarbone. “Tell… tell me.”

You’re not sure what he wants to know and there are so many things you could tell him right now that you end up saying nothing at all other than, “Please, Dean, fuck me— _please_.”

He groans, a little broken-sounding, and it occurs to you that perhaps that was the right answer after all. Or maybe there was never a wrong answer. “C’mon,” you insist, spreading your legs so that Dean falls between them and grunts at the renewed contact.

“Yeah. Yeah,” he nods, dazed, and goes back to his bag where he pulls out his wallet. His hands are shaking, you notice, as they fumble with the battered brown leather but when he finally takes out a condom and sachet of lube he looks at you and winks, confident. “They’ve been in there a while, but they should be good,” he chuckles, and honestly, you’re so desperate for it at this point that you’d almost be willing to do it dry.

When his first slicked-up finger presses inside, you whine and shudder. It’s been a long time since you’ve done this with anyone and oh, does it burn, but Dean is mouthing over your chest and licking at your nipples and the pleasure from that obliterates the sting of being stretched open.

Your fingers clench at his shoulders, your nails leaving behind little half-moon indents, and already you can feel that familiar white-noise removing all coherent though processes. You always lose your head during sex, which is a shame really because you have a feeling you’re about to be fucked six ways from Sunday and you’d quite like to remember every little detail afterwards.

Dean is careful with his fingers, even if his pace is quick and desperate. He seems to instinctively know your limits and has you trembling finely underneath him in no time at all. Your hands palm his sweaty shoulders and pull him close, so close, until there’s nowhere you’re not touching.

“Now,” you tell him, trying hard not to outright beg.

With a whimper, Dean sucks at that soft spot behind your ear and murmurs, “You sure?”

“Yes, Dean, I’m sure.”

He pulls away marginally and you’re about to complain when you hear the sound of a condom being ripped open. Pushing yourself onto your elbows, you watch as Dean rolls the rubber over his dick—his beautiful dick, his dick that’s about to be _in you_ —and then he’s on top of you again, his mouth hungry and suffocating on yours, and there’s a slick, blunt pressure against your perineum and then… oh. _Oh_.

You cry out in pleasure-pain and hook your ankles together at the small of his back, urging him to go faster, push harder, but Dean is so gentle and when he smiles at you his eyes crinkle. “Cas,” he sighs out, a soft exhalation, a benediction.

Something flutters under your ribcage. This is really not good, not good at all.

When he bottoms out, he stops. You’re sweating profusely now, sticking to the wooden floor uncomfortably, your fingers cramping where they’re digging into the flesh of Dean’s waist, but it’s quite possibly the best you’ve ever felt. You huff involuntarily, amused and mildly hysterical. Dean drops a kiss to your tacky lips and then grins hard at you.

“Jesus, Cas,” he whispers affectionately and pushes a hand into your messy hair. He peppers kisses all across your face, the tip of your nose and the creases around your eyes, and you can’t help it; you laugh. Giddy and so totally gone on him.

Dean moves, pulling out and then thrusting hard back in, and your laugh dissolves into a groan. It’s good, it’s so good. The pace he sets is relentless and punishing, nailing your prostate every other thrust. You’re probably going to get the hardwood equivalent of carpet burn what with the way your skin is sliding on the floor, but right now you’re finding it very difficult to care.

One of your arms winds around his neck, pulling him down so you can lick your way up his throat, nip teasingly at his earlobe. “Oh, god,” you moan, because you can feel that familiar heat pooling in the pit of your stomach, that tingle and curl of your toes. “Dean, touch—touch me.”

Dean steadies himself on one hand and wraps the other around your dick, tugging lightly. “Yeah? Like this?” he asks breathlessly, but your only answer is to arch your back and make a low keening noise. His thrusts have slowed now, at the risk of tipping off-balance, and it’s creating the most incredible teasing drag.

“Dean, _Dean_ ,” you rasp, and his eyes are so bright and green and _adoring_ where they sweep over your body and finally meet your gaze.

“Right here, Cas, I got you.”

Carelessly, you grab his hair and pull his head down into a fierce kiss, and you keep kissing him and kissing him even as he jerks you off with skilled and dangerous fingers, until you’re shaking and shuddering underneath him, until the pressure builds and builds and then _explodes_ and you come in white-hot stripes up your belly with Dean’s hand wringing every last ounce of pleasure from you.

Distantly, you’re aware that Dean has stopped moving and is grunting out something unintelligible that sounds like your name as he comes buried inside you, his mouth slack-jawed as he breathes hotly against your neck. Then he pulls out carefully and collapses on top of you, boneless and sated.

“Holy fuck,” he says a moment later, reverent, and you chuckle.

“Indeed.”

“Dude, that was…” He pulls his head back and stares down at you, looking a little awed. It makes you blush, but Dean doesn’t finish the end of his sentence, just drops his lips to yours again. Quick and light, practically chaste.

“We should get cleaned up,” you tell him, not because you especially want to move, but because you’re starting to shiver for real this time and the mess on your stomach is sort of disgusting.

“We should,” Dean agrees, but it’s another couple of minutes before he finally climbs off you and gets to his feet, offering you a hand up. “Y’know, I sort of feel like we should sterilize this floor.”

You smile and hook a thumb over your shoulder, indicating the outside hall. “There’s a mop and bucket in the janitor’s closet.”

“I’ll deal with it,” Dean offers, then gestures a lazy hand towards your torso. “You need to wash up. And I need to get rid of this.” He waves the same hand at the condom still on his soft cock and you flush, your cheeks burning, and make a hasty retreat to the restroom with your gym bag.

The showers here leave a lot to be desired; the water pressure is pathetic and the water itself never hotter than lukewarm at best, but it’s good, because it wakes you up a bit. You’re starting to feel that bone-deep exhaustion that always follows sex, and think longingly of your bed at home.

Home. Where Dean is also sleeping now. One room away from you. One thin wall away.

You did not think this through.

Is this going to change things now? Is Dean going to want the two of you to _be_ something? Because you don’t think you’re ready for that. You can barely be relied upon to look after yourself and your cat, let alone another human being.

But it’s _Dean_. Who, in the space of a few weeks, has become the best friend you’ve ever had. And perhaps—

“So I heard it’s better for the environment if you share showers.”

You start and blink the water out of your eyes to ensure they’re not playing tricks on you as a very naked Dean steps into the cubicle.

“I think that’s cars," you correct, hoarsely.

“Pretty sure it's showers,” Dean breathes, and crowds you up against the cold tiled wall. These kisses are slow and sweet and only a very small amount of groping takes place as you rinse each other off.

Afterwards you unconsciously stick close to one another. Hip-checking as you lock up, hands brushing as you walk down the street, thighs pressed together in the subway car, elbows bumping as you heat up yesterday's meatloaf for dinner.

Dean feeds Alfie after you've eaten while you load the dishwasher and then by some unspoken agreement you get ready for bed simultaneously. The couch goes ignored.

It’s been a long time since you’ve slept with another warm body beside you, especially one who’s as touch-hungry as Dean is. He burrows into you, one hand underneath your t-shirt to scrape his nails over your stomach and the other in your hair as he leans over you to kiss your mouth.

You palm his strong jaw, thumb across his cheekbone, and whisper, “You have a stupid face,” through lips that are swollen and kiss stung.

“ _You_ have a stupid face,” he retorts, stubble scritch-scratching against yours as he sucks at the bolt of your jaw.

“I can’t stop thinking about your stupid face,” you tell him quietly, hand on the back of his head now and eyes on the ceiling while he licks a stripe up your neck. “And your hands, and your arms, and your stupid bare feet. Dean, I’m—”

“Shush,” Dean says, back at eye level. “I know, Cas. I’m scared too.”

You kiss him then, because you can’t not. He sighs, content, and breaks the kiss to rest his head on your chest, snaking an arm around your waist.

Softly, you ask, “Don’t overthink it, right?”

“Breathe,” he agrees. “Trust me.” The memory of what followed those words earlier that night makes you smile. Dean kisses it away and promises into your mouth, “We’ll make it up as we go.”

-

_six weeks later_

Anna gets an A.

To celebrate the five of you go for pie and milkshakes at Benny’s Diner (Dean’s suggestion) and by the time you’re kicked out at closing you’re all riding sufficiently impressive sugar highs. As such the walk to the subway station becomes quite a challenge, with Jo giving Charlie a piggyback up ahead and Anna doubled over in laughter at Charlie’s constant yeehaws.

“Hey Harvelle, Bradbury, tried the reverse cowgirl yet?” Dean calls after them, which launches Anna into another set of giggles and makes Jo throw Dean a look over her shoulder that promises retribution.

“Why, would you and Cas recommend it?” she quips, and flashes him a grin before dutifully ‘giddying up’.

You’re still laughing when Dean grabs your hand and holds you back, letting the two of you fall behind the others. He smiles at you, bright and lovely, and his mouth tastes like apples and nutmeg when you lean in. But you can feel something is off. There’s a nervous thrum under Dean’s skin that puts you on edge.

“What is it, Dean?”

Dean places his hands on your hips, pulls you in. “So, I spoke to Bobby and Sam yesterday. Told them ‘bout you.”

Your unease vanishes and a teasing grin curls at your mouth. “Oh really? What did you tell them?”

The tips of Dean’s ears turn a little pink but he doesn’t look away. He shrugs and says, shockingly sincere, “That I’m in love with this dorky guy with a stupid face, and that I want them to meet him.”

Something light and warm spreads in the empty spaces behind your ribcage, filling you up, spilling over and making you smile, making you push into his body in the middle of the sidewalk here on a New York City street until his arms are wrapped around your middle.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” Dean asks into your shoulder.

“Well, I guess I’m going to Kansas with the man I love.”

Dean beams, kisses you, keeps kissing you until there’s a yell of “stop being so gross and get a move on!” from Charlie up ahead, followed by Anna reminding you that you promised to buy the first round of drinks when you get to The Roadhouse.

You flip them the bird, much to their amusement, and reel Dean back in. “So, the L word, huh?” you whisper into the quiet gap between your bodies.

“It was overdue,” Dean confesses. “I’ve known for freakin’ ages.”

“Me too.”

“Come _on_ , lovebirds!”

Dean rolls his eyes, presses his lips to yours once more, then yells, “Hold your fuckin’ horses, we’re coming!” much to the disgust of an elderly woman passing by. His hand snags yours again. “You with me, Cas?”

You squeeze his fingers tight. “I’m with you.”


End file.
